


Nothing Happened in Belarus

by DiscordantWords



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bittersweet, Canon Compliant, Drug Use, If you consider spontaneous time travel within the bounds of canon, M/M, Pining John, Pining Sherlock, Season/Series 01, Season/Series 04, Sherlock is a Mess, Time Travel, Unresolved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-16
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-12-02 16:06:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11512797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiscordantWords/pseuds/DiscordantWords
Summary: Six years, give or take. And one night where nothing happened.





	1. Then

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [H.I.A.T.U.S.](https://hiatustory.tumblr.com/) July challenge. The theme was Time Travel.

*

There was something stirring downstairs.

John jolted awake, sat blinking in the darkness of his bedroom. He breathed in through his nose, careful quiet breaths, and _listened._

A rustle. A thump. Footsteps, creaking across the sitting room floor. 

There should not be anyone in the flat. Not with Sherlock away, and Mrs Hudson long asleep. 

He threw back the covers and stood. Took his gun from the nightstand. Went down the stairs, light on his feet, mindful of creaky old boards. 

The sitting room was dark. Someone breathed in the shadows. 

John flicked the safety off, stepped into the room, reached for the light. His hand was quite steady. 

"Don't move," he said. He switched on the lamp.

Sherlock blinked at him from his chair, where he'd folded himself into an unlikely position that looked like murder on the spine. 

"Christ," John said. He breathed out hard through his teeth. Turned away, set the gun down. Flexed his hand. "I almost shot you."

Sherlock did not respond.

John turned back. Looked at him. "What are you doing here? I thought you were in Belarus." 

Sherlock stared back, stared _hard,_ his eyes wide and uncomprehending. He looked terrible, John realized belatedly. Face gaunt and stubbled, hair greasy and matted. He'd hunched miserably in his chair, curled in on himself, shielded by the late-night darkness.

"John?" Sherlock asked, and there was an odd tremble in his voice, a cautious uncertainty that felt entirely at odds with the man he had come to know. 

"What the hell happened to you?" John crossed the room, crouched down next to the chair. Pressed a hand against Sherlock's forehead, frowned at the feel of hot clammy skin, at the way Sherlock twitched away from his touch.

"Sorry," Sherlock said, his voice gone slurry. He tipped his head back, blinked blearily up at John. His pupils were pinprick small, in spite of the dim light. "I should have said that, right? I'm sorry. I tried to say. I did try. But." 

"What are you on about?" John's gut went cold; a terrible, wrenching stab of doubt. He leaned forward, peered into Sherlock's eyes. They were red-rimmed and unfocused.

Sherlock shut his eyes, turned his face away. 

"Sherlock," John said, gripping his shoulder with one hand and giving it a little shake. Sherlock's skin was hot, too hot, radiating through the thin silk of his dressing gown. "Have you taken something? What is this?" 

Sherlock laughed, his eyes still shut. It was a miserable, sorry chuckle. 

_It's a drugs bust,_ Lestrade had said, that first night, and John had laughed, because it had seemed so utterly ridiculous, so utterly at odds with what he'd seen. But Sherlock hadn't laughed, and then it hadn't been funny or ridiculous at all. 

John took his hand away from Sherlock's shoulder, gently peeled up the sleeve of his dressing gown.

Sherlock made a mumbling sound of protest, shifted in the chair, buried his face against the leather. There was no mistaking the dark marks on his forearm. 

"Jesus," John said, because there were too many of them, this spoke to _weeks_ of abuse, and Sherlock had only been gone for two nights. He'd missed this, somehow. It had been going on under his nose, while they shared takeaway and bickered over the telly. 

_I'm clean,_ Sherlock had said. And John had believed him. He'd believed him entirely, without hesitation. The idea of Sherlock, brilliant, confident Sherlock, using at all had been incomprehensible.

"Why are you here?" Sherlock asked, his voice muffled against the arm of his chair. There was something accusing in that tone, something hurt and petulant. 

"Because I live here," John said. He shut his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose. 

Sherlock laughed again, that same awful, broken sound. He did not lift his head. 

John reached out, pressed two fingers against the sweaty, slick-hot skin of Sherlock's neck, felt for a pulse. It was a slow, sluggish thrum beneath his fingertips. 

Sherlock rolled over in his chair, caught John's wrist with clumsy, fumbling fingers. There was a sneer on his face, curling his lip back, but it faded as he studied John's hand. 

"Your ring," he said. "You're not wearing—why—?"

"My what?" John shook his head, tried to pull his hand back, but Sherlock's grip held firm. "Sherlock—" 

"M'fine," Sherlock mumbled, still clasping on to John's hand, staring, staring, staring. His brow had creased up, the way it sometimes did when he was confused or frustrated. 

"You're anything but fine," John said. "When was the last time you ate anything? Or— _bathed?_ "

Two nights in Belarus. He'd accepted a client, gone to interview some bloke who'd been accused of murder. Sherlock had looked fine when he left. He'd been keyed up in that particular way he got when he was making up his mind on whether or not a case was worth his time. There had been no sign of this, no indication. Two nights. 

"I'm glad you're here," Sherlock said. His eyes fluttered shut, and he released John's hand with a sigh. He took a deep breath. "I'm sorry. About Mary. I wanted to tell you. You wouldn't let me." 

"Who?" John asked, and then he shook his head, cutting off his own train of thought. Sherlock was out of his mind, and no amount of interrogation was going to wring sense from him. He needed to sleep it off, and then—

Well. Then they were going to need to have a very serious conversation. 

"Come on," he said. He got his hands under Sherlock's arms, gave a tug. "Up."

"Nmmpf," Sherlock said, sinking further into the chair.

"You're not sleeping the whole night like that." 

"Pretty sure I am." 

"No," he said. "Nope. Up. You're coming with me into the kitchen, and you're drinking a glass of water, and then you're going to sleep. Properly, in a bed." 

Sherlock sighed, burrowed his face against the leather for a moment before sitting up. His hair was flattened, dark and heavy against his head. There was a crease in his cheek from where he'd pressed his face against the armrest. 

"So. She was right, then," he said. He stared at the ground, his hands folded in his lap, fingers restless, worrying the thin limp fabric of his pyjamas. His voice was flat, matter-of-fact. "John Watson. Come to save me." 

"Yep," John said. "All the way from upstairs. Now come on."

He tugged, and Sherlock stood on unsteady legs, leaning heavily against him.

"I tried, you know," Sherlock said. 

Bemused, John tucked his arm around Sherlock's back, led him in a stumbling walk towards the kitchen. "I'm sure you did." 

Sherlock stopped walking. Stared at the wall over the sofa. He blinked, furrowed up his brow again. 

"Sherlock." 

Sherlock twitched, glanced at John. He was frowning. "What've you done to my wall?"

"What about the wall?"

Sherlock sighed, shook his head. For a moment he looked heartbreakingly bewildered. "Something." He pursed his lips, looked away. "I don't know. Not important. Is it important?" 

"You can figure it out tomorrow," John promised. He took another step, and Sherlock went with him. 

They stopped at the sink. Sherlock leaned against John, worryingly quiet and docile.

John turned on the tap. Filled a glass. Eased it into Sherlock's hand. 

Sherlock took a small swallow, then a larger one. He lifted the glass away from his lips for a moment to take a shuddering breath, then drew it back and finished the water in several long swallows. He set the glass down on the counter. His hand shook.

"You cleaned," he said. 

John glanced around the kitchen. "Yes, well. Sort of accepted that I'd have to. Not particularly keen on eating my breakfast somewhere that could be designated a biohazard." 

Sherlock chuckled, made a small pleased humming sound, and sagged more fully against John. His head came to rest on John's shoulder, hair brushing up against John's cheek. The smell of him filled John's nose; heavy, smoky, unwashed. Somehow not entirely unpleasant. 

"Hope you weren't too hard on Wiggins when you tossed him out. Not his fault." 

"What?" John asked, but Sherlock had already lost interest in whatever he'd been trying to say.

"Can I confess something? I will. I'll confess," Sherlock mumbled as John nudged him back upright, began marching him down the hall towards the bedroom. "I was afraid." 

"You?" John made a mock-scoffing sound, pushed the bedroom door open with his foot. Did not bother with the light—the room was startlingly neat, in spite of the creeping clutter that had taken over the rest of their shared space. 

"Afraid that I'd lost you." Sherlock sat down on the edge of the bed with a muffled groan, put his head in his hands. 

John let out a little huff of laughter, disbelieving. "Right, yeah. Come on now. You hardly know me. Surely it's not that hard to find someone to clean the kitchen." 

"That's entirely untrue," Sherlock said, sounding put-out. "You're my best friend." 

John straightened up, looked at Sherlock, oddly touched. 

Sherlock sighed, flopped backward onto the bed, shut his eyes. "Sorry," he slurred. "Sorry. Did I already say? It should have been me." 

"What the hell happened in Belarus?" John asked, not really expecting an answer. 

"Belarus," Sherlock said, rolling over onto his stomach, burying his face into his pillow. "You keep saying that. Why do you keep saying that?" 

"Because last I checked, that's where you were going." 

"Why would I want to go there? Awful place." Sherlock flapped his hand in the air, let it fall back down to the mattress beside him. "I was there once, you know. Minsk. Cold. Tedious. Poor grammar. I've no desire to repeat the experience." 

A smile tugged at John's mouth and he breathed out through his nose, looked away. There was something charmingly engaging about Sherlock. Even—even like this. 

"You said you'd never been," John said, hesitating for a moment, and then perching on the edge of the mattress. He reached out to grasp a slim wrist, feeling once more for Sherlock's pulse. 

It was steady. He let his fingers linger longer than they needed to, reassured by the gentle beat. 

"Of course I have," Sherlock said. "Don't you remember?" 

"Must've told that story to somebody else." 

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock said. "Who else is there?" 

"Mm, right," John said lightly. "And you're sure I was in the room at the time, then?" 

Sherlock was silent. Only the uneven cadence of his breathing gave away the fact that he was still awake.

There was no reason for John to keep his fingers against the warm thin skin of Sherlock's wrist. His pulse was steady. He was high, yes, he'd made a mess of himself for certain, but he was not overdosing. There was no immediate danger. 

John sighed, shut his eyes. Kept his hand where it was. 

Two nights. Sherlock had been gone for just two nights, and John, in direct contradiction to all good reason and common sense, had _missed_ him. 

Sherlock breathed in, the sound unsteady. "You have to know, John. That I never intended—" 

John opened his eyes, looked down. Sherlock was sprawled ungracefully on his stomach, one arm extended, his left wrist held between John's fingers, the other flung up over his head. His legs shifted restlessly against the duvet. 

He did not continue speaking. 

"Hm?" John prompted. The pulse thumped under his fingers. 

Sherlock lifted his head up from the pillow, fixed him with that pale gaze. There was something agonized on his face, something that made him seem older, something that went beyond the gaunt hollow cheeks or the stubble or the unwashed sweaty heat of him. 

"I didn't mean—" Sherlock tried again. "I never meant—" He shut his mouth, pressed his lips together in a tight line. 

"It's all right," John said, helpless. "Sherlock, it's fine. Just go to sleep, you'll feel better in the morning. Doctor's orders." 

He let go of Sherlock's wrist with some reluctance.

"John," Sherlock said. He flung his arm out, chasing John's retreating hand. 

"It's all right," John said again. He reached up, briefly covered Sherlock's hand with his own.

Sherlock seized his wrist and tugged, unbalancing him, pulling him down. 

Sherlock's bed was very soft. John was not at all surprised. 

"Sherlock," he said, pushing up onto his elbow. 

Sherlock kissed him. It was a clumsy, half-desperate move, lunging and close-mouthed, his neck twisting at an odd angle as they pressed together. 

His skin was flushed hot, sweat-damp and sour. His stubble rasped against John's face. He did not close his eyes. 

John met that gaze, that pained, piercing gaze, and then let his eyes drift shut. He brought his hand up, cupped Sherlock's bristly cheek, kissed him once, gently. Pulled back. 

"Not doing this right now," he said, quiet. He kept his hand on Sherlock's cheek, his thumb stroking gently, softening the rejection. 

"No," Sherlock said, his eyes still wide open, unblinking. "I suppose not." 

"Go to sleep," John said. 

Sherlock dropped his head back down to the pillow, kept his eyes open. They gleamed, pale and colourless, in the darkness. 

"Sherlock," John said. 

He did not close his eyes. The expression on his face was unlike anything John had ever seen before—haunted and longing and verging on terrified. 

After a long moment, John stood up. His back creaked unpleasantly. He stepped out of his shoes. Settled onto the bed, on top of the duvet, his back against the headboard, legs stretched out in front of him. 

"All right?" he asked. 

Sherlock nodded, a quick jerk of his head against the pillow. He blinked once, twice, and the little furrow between his brows smoothed out. He shut his eyes. 

*

When John opened his eyes, there was weak sunlight filtering through the window. 

He sat up from where he'd slumped against Sherlock's headboard, his back protesting. Turned to his right, looked at the expanse of rumpled bedding. He was alone. 

He scrubbed his hands over his face, groaned. 

The day stretched ahead of him, certain to be uncomfortable, awkward, grueling. There was no avoiding it, no shying away from the necessary conversation. No ignoring the truth of those dark marks on Sherlock's arm, the cold water shock of his realization.

How long, he wondered, how long had Sherlock been covering this up? How long had he carried on, blissfully unaware? 

He'd spent months all _too_ aware of Sherlock, he'd thought. Uncomfortably aware. Fascinated and irritated and, at times, inconveniently attracted. Even now, the sense memory of Sherlock's lips against his own sent electricity skittering down his spine 

Under different circumstances, to find himself in the quiet comfort of Sherlock's ordered bedroom, sharing space and breath, Sherlock's skin warm and flushed and thrumming beneath his hands—

Best not to go down that road. Best not to even _think_ it. Especially not now.

He stood up, smoothed the wrinkles from the duvet. Stretched. He was too warm, his clothes clinging uncomfortably. The room smelled of Sherlock. 

_I didn't mean—I never meant—_ Sherlock had said, his face pinched and desperately unhappy. Remorseful. 

John reached down, picked up his shoes. Slipped them on. Wondered again just what the hell had happened to Sherlock in Belarus. 

He'd been successfully hiding his habit for weeks. Something had made him slip up. Something had upset him, greatly. He hadn't just been high, he'd been miserable and bewildered and clingy. He'd thrown over his aloof, untouchable persona, had latched onto John, had pulled him close, had _kissed_ him—

Well. People sometimes got tactile when they were high. And as much as he seemed loathe to admit it, Sherlock was human. 

(And John knew it firsthand, now, didn't he? How warm and heavy Sherlock could be, pressed against his side, how his cheek fit perfectly in the cup of John's palm, how his lips felt, uncoordinated and determined and so very soft, against John's own.)

Christ, this was going to be an uncomfortable conversation.

He went through the door and into the kitchen. Switched on the kettle, found two mugs, set them on the counter. The flat was silent. 

Sherlock was not in his chair, nor sprawled on the sofa. Gone out, then. Embarrassed, maybe. Or distracted or busy or just looking for another fix. Who knew? Who ever knew, really, when it came to Sherlock Holmes? 

He'd thought he knew. The important bits, at least. And that stung, a bit. He couldn't help it. 

Downstairs, a door slammed. Someone thudded up the stairs. It was a familiar tread. 

The kettle switched off. 

John sighed, poured the water. Stood looking down at the mugs as Sherlock came through the door. 

He brought with him the sharp smell of the outdoors, of London air, exhaust and smoke. London itself seemed to exhale from the fibres of his greatcoat. 

"How are you feeling?" John asked, turning around.

Sherlock stood in the doorway, wearing his coat, his leather gloves, a small suitcase at his side. He—looked—

John shook his head, fumbled behind him for one of the mugs, took a sip of weak, too-hot tea. 

Sherlock looked fine.

There was none of that hollow gauntness to him. He'd shaved. His hair was perfectly coiffed. He was well-dressed and bright-eyed and alert and—

What the _hell—?_

" _Please_ tell me there's been a sudden uptick in violent murders over the last two days," Sherlock said, peeling off his gloves and brushing past John to snatch up the second mug on the counter. 

"What—?" John stepped back, looked him up and down. His mouth had gone dry, his heart thudding in his chest. 

Sherlock took a large swallow of tea, grimaced, took a second swallow. Set the mug back down on the counter. 

"Murders," he said, clapping his hands together, looking expectantly at John. "The messier the better. Can no one manage to be _creative_ anymore? And that tea is awful, John." 

He whirled away; stripping out of his coat, flinging it over the back of his chair, tapping at the keyboard on John's laptop, making a disgusted noise at whatever he found on the screen, spinning off to snatch up the newspapers from the coffee table. 

"You've got your suitcase," John managed to say. He cleared his throat. 

Sherlock stopped, turned around, fixed him with a disbelieving stare. "Ye-es," he said, drawing the word out. He spoke slowly, crisply, the way he did when he deigned to interact with someone he found terribly stupid. "I was away. I've just returned." 

"This morning." 

"Ye-es," he said again. "You did see me come in." 

John shut his eyes. Opened them again. Sherlock was still standing in the sitting room, still looking quite healthy, still regarding him with a certain level of startled disdain. 

A dream, then. Was that what it had been? Was he truly so lonely, so desperate for attention that two nights apart from his mad flatmate had sent him crawling into Sherlock's empty bed? That he'd dreamed up a Sherlock turned pliant and needy, a chaste kiss and an opportunity to be chivalrous and protective, all at once? A chance to play the hero?

What was _wrong_ with him?

He was suddenly aware of how he must appear, dressed in yesterday's rumpled clothes, gaping like a fish, pinned by the stare of the world's most observant man. 

"I need to get ready for work," he said, turning, retreating. He could feel Sherlock's eyes on him, tracking as he left the room.

He went to work. 

He saw patients, treated minor ailments. Thought of Sherlock, wide-eyed and sad in the shadows. 

He made small talk with Sarah, edged in a few flirty comments. She smiled at him, and he thought of Sherlock, clasping onto his arm, pulling him close. 

He ate lunch at his desk, picked listlessly at a salad. Thought of Sherlock's bewildered, resigned voice, thought of _I was afraid that I'd lost you_ and _You're my best friend_ and how, how could he ever have imagined such attachment, such desperate fondness from Sherlock, of all people? 

He rode the tube home, shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers, lips pressed together, rigid and tense and filled with anxious rising dread, because Sherlock had been home in their flat all day, and by now he must know that John had been in his room, and—

Well. He'd certainly deduce something from _that._

He opened the door. Looked at the stairs. Wondered how long he could put off climbing them, how long he could put off looking Sherlock in the eye. 

How would it go, this time? _Once again, I'm flattered by your interest, but, as I've already clearly expressed, I'm married to my work. If you can't control yourself, perhaps you should consider a different arrangement? And, for the sake of clarity, since you seem to have some trouble grasping the concept: included under the umbrella of_ controlling yourself _is not sleeping in my bed while I'm away—was this_ really _something that needed to be stated out loud?_

The first gunshot made him flinch, the second one had him pounding up the stairs with his heart in his throat.

There he found Sherlock, keyed-up beyond belief, petulant and manic, surrounded by bullet holes (the wall had it coming, indeed!) There was also a severed head in the fridge, its mouth gone slack, its eyes glassy and droopy, and oh, Christ that was—that was— 

He'd spent much of the day preparing himself to deal with the fallout from his own stupidity. But he'd clearly underestimated the damage he'd wrought. 

So he'd turned around and walked out. 

And then— 

Then Moriarty appeared on the scene. And suddenly all of John's worries—his dream, his inappropriate behavior, his unwanted and inconvenient attraction to Sherlock—didn't seem very important at all. 

And if Sherlock noticed that his bed had been disturbed while he'd been away, he never said a word about it.


	2. Now

*

It was raining.

Sherlock kept his eyes closed, listened to the steady beat against his bedroom window. 

He did not need to open his eyes, did not need to turn over to know that he was alone. No steady breaths from the other side of the bed, no rustle of sheets. 

He opened his eyes. 

His room was sparse, neat. Empty. 

A dream, then.

Well. He shouldn't have expected anything different. John was—John had made it quite clear that he wasn't interested in—in anything. At all. 

It had felt very real. John's fingers against his wrist, John's lips against his own. The quiet, amused concern in John's voice and that—that should have been his first clue. Because John had not spoken to him in that particular tone for a very long time. 

He sat up, rubbed at his face. His skin felt sour, greasy. There was a need already beginning to take hold, itching beneath his skin. 

Something stirred in the kitchen. 

He leapt from the bed, stumbled slightly over his own two feet, a pathetic, miserable hope bubbling up in his chest as he flung upon the bedroom door. 

"John?" 

_You cleaned,_ he'd said, and John had chuckled and smiled and said _Yes, well, sort of accepted that I'd have to._

John had come for him. John had looked at Sherlock with sadness and concern and fondness, had put him to bed, had accepted his misguided kiss with no anger, only a gentle determined kindness. John had said—

"That you, Shezza?" 

Sherlock stopped cold, blinked, took in the scene before him. The kitchen: filthy and cluttered up, dishes piled in the sink, something noxious bubbling on a hotplate. Wiggins: pallid and scrawny, hunched over a flask, inspecting the contents. 

The fragile spark of hope guttered, died. He cleared his throat, continued on into the kitchen, shoved aside a stack of filthy glassware to get at the kettle. 

"You go out last night?" Wiggins asked, not looking up. "Didn't see you." 

Sherlock paused. Considered. Elected not to answer. 

_Belarus,_ John had said to him in his dream. He'd said it more than once, as if it held some meaning. Why had he fixated on Belarus? He'd only been there the once, years ago, to interview a man obviously guilty of murder. It had been cold. Tedious. He'd had difficulty making arrangements with the local authorities in order to see his client. And he'd returned home feeling even more bored and wound up than he had when he'd left. 

He'd discovered John's blog. He'd started an experiment on saliva coagulation. He'd shot holes in the wall. 

Of course, that had been right before Moriarty had made himself known. There hadn't been much time for boredom, after. 

He abandoned the kettle. There were syringes rattling in the nearest tea cup, all promising a better kick than caffeine. 

He saw to his needs, then drifted into the sitting room, folded himself into his chair. 

"Belarus," he said out loud. 

"What's that, Shezza?" 

He ignored Wiggins, settled deeper into his chair. He'd fallen asleep here, last night. Fallen asleep and awakened in his own bed. He did not recall moving. 

He'd moved in his dream, of course. John had helped him. John had—

Belarus. 

Why did his mind keep going back to Belarus?

He had declined the case after meeting with the client. It had been a waste of time, and he'd been irritated over it. He'd returned to London, had been further irritated by the fact that John had gone off to waste more time at that tedious surgery with his tedious girlfriend, and had unleashed his frustration on the wall. 

_The wall._

Something—

"Shezza?" 

"For God's SAKE," he snapped, opening his eyes. "WHAT?" 

"You were talking," Wiggins said, watching him warily from the doorway. "Thought you were talking to me." 

"I wasn't." 

"You said something about the wall." 

Sherlock turned his attention to the wall, studied the grinning yellow face, the scattered holes, the places where the bold paper had split and peeled.

John had been furious at him, that night. He'd left the flat entirely, had gone storming off to Sasha or Sarah or Cindy or whatever her name was. And Moriarty had kicked off his opening ceremonies, had pushed a button and blown Sherlock clear across the room, had laid out the initial terms of their game. 

Belarus.

The wall.

It felt important. Was it important? Or just his mind, refusing to let go of a meaningless wisp of dream?

It wasn't even the part of the dream he wanted to hold onto. He wanted John's steadying arm around his waist, his hand on his face, his quiet even breaths in the darkness, the quick regretful press of his lips against flushed skin. He wanted John's soft laughter, his frustrated fondness, his _forgiveness._

Belarus. 

Had he missed something, then, when he'd returned? Something important?

He had arrived home from Belarus. John had been at the surgery. He'd been bored, and irritated, and had spray-painted the wall, and then he'd gone upstairs to fetch John's gun for a bit of target practice—

No. 

He had arrived home from Belarus. John had not left yet. They'd exchanged words, and John had left for work at the surgery. Sherlock had been bored, and irritated, and—

No. Not quite. He shut his eyes, focused.

He had arrived home from Belarus. John was still in the flat, eating breakfast. He'd been in the kitchen, standing at the counter, looking harassed and only half-awake, his hair sticking up in the back. Not an entirely uncommon occurrence. John tended towards a sour morning demeanor. But—

There had been something—

It came to him all at once and he jolted forward in his chair, pressed a hand against his mouth. 

John had been _dressed._ He hadn't been wearing his pyjamas, or a dressing gown. He'd been fully dressed, trousers and shirt and shoes. His clothes had looked rumpled, like he'd slept in them. And his expression had been—there had been something more than the ordinary morning irritation in his face, hadn't there? 

Was he remembering correctly, or was his mind supplying what he wanted to see? He'd have had no reason to waste precious memory space preserving minute details of an ordinary morning interaction. 

But Belarus. The wall. Something—

He had arrived home from Belarus. John was in the kitchen, dressed. Grumpy. John was looking at the kettle. Making tea. There had been two mugs on the counter. 

_Two mugs on the counter._

John had made him tea. He had not been home. John would have had no idea when he was expected to return from Belarus, as he hadn't bothered to text details. But John had made him tea. 

John had turned around when he'd come through the door, looking tired and pinched and confused. Confused? Yes. Almost certainly confused. At the time he'd dismissed it. The vast majority of people spent their days in a state of confusion. Why would John be any different? 

But John had stared at him for longer than necessary. And he'd been bristling with irritation over Belarus, over the case that wasn't worth his time, over the traffic he'd sat in on the taxi ride back to Baker Street, over the sheer miserable number of dull people cluttered up on the face of the earth, and he'd looked at John looking at him and John said—

_How are you feeling?_

Had that been what he said? 

He turned it over in his mind, considered it. It was an odd thing to say. A very odd thing to say to one's flatmate upon his return from a trip out of the country. 

It had been a loose thread, and he hadn't tugged. It hadn't even occurred to him to tug. He'd been distracted. He'd been _bored._ His brain had been atrophying, rotting in his skull and he hadn't paid attention to the fact that nothing about John in the kitchen on that particular morning made any sense. 

"Shezza." 

His eyes snapped open. He blinked, briefly disoriented. The room was significantly darker. 

"Getting something to eat," Wiggins said. He had his coat on, was standing over near the door. His coat had worn thin around the elbows. The hem was frayed. "You want anything?" 

"No," Sherlock said. He shifted in his seat. His back ached. 

"You've been at it for hours." 

"At what?" 

"Thinking." 

Sherlock waved a hand in the air. "Of course. That's what I do." 

"They say that drugs open doors in the mind," Wiggins said.

"That's a lie addicts cling to in order to make themselves feel better about using drugs," Sherlock said. 

"People in glass houses…" 

"Oh, please don't speak in cliché, it gives me a headache." 

"Whatever," Wiggins said, and went. Sherlock listened to his plodding steps on the stairs, the creak and slam of the door.

Behind him, the rain pattered steadily against the window. 

It was meaningless, chasing his thoughts in circles like this. There was no point. Nothing to be gained. Nothing John had done or said years ago could make any difference now. He'd tried his hand at friendship and he'd made a complete hash of it, he ought to just wash his hands of it entirely except now he couldn't, could he, he couldn't because he _cared._ Mary was dead. John was—John was lost to him. Possibly forever. Probably forever. Unless he found something, some way to draw him back.

_The wall._

It had seemed important. 

He'd arrived home from Belarus. He'd spoken with John in the kitchen. John had made him tea, and had then fled upstairs to ready himself for work. John had left without saying anything else, almost as if he was trying to avoid Sherlock entirely. As if he'd had something to hide. Sherlock had gone into his bedroom, had attempted to sleep, but his mind wouldn't shut up, the engine in his brain revved and roared and tore at him and the very _air_ had seemed permeated with John, he was everywhere, all around, and it was _distracting_ and he'd been infuriated by that distraction, hadn't he? He'd tossed and turned and punched at his pillow and had finally retreated back out into the sitting room. 

He'd called Molly at Barts, had turned on the charm and talked her into dropping off a sample. He'd started an experiment, grown bored, put the sample away in the fridge and forgot all about it. 

He'd then spent an hour on the sofa, staring at the ceiling and despairing of the lack of interesting crimes in the world. The can of spray paint had caught his attention. He'd improved the general appearance of the wall. Then he'd gone hunting around for John's gun, had found it, had alleviated his crushing boredom with further improvements to the wall. John had come home. They'd argued over the sample in the fridge. John had gone out again. And Moriarty had, quite literally, burst onto the scene. 

Why had the wall seemed important? 

He'd noted it, last night. Well. In his dream. He'd noticed something— _something_ about the wall. 

(John's hand on his shoulder, his fingers at his neck, taking his pulse. His arm around Sherlock's waist, supporting him as they walked from sitting room to kitchen to bedroom. The warm strong soothing heat of him.)

No. Not—that wasn't helping. He needed to focus on _the wall._

(John's eyes, locked on his in the dark stillness of his bedroom. John's hand on his face, thumb against his bristled cheek. John's lips on his, that gentle, chaste, regretful pressure. Just once. It had been worth it, just to feel it, just the once.)

"Stop," he said out loud, pressed his fists against his forehead. 

The wall. _The wall._

The wall had been—the wall had been unblemished. Smooth, unbroken wallpaper. Bold print. No smiley face, no bullet holes. No stains, no damage. A long stretch of paper over the comfortable drab sofa. The way it had looked when he'd first moved in. Before—

He sat up, gasping, his eyes open wide. 

John in the kitchen. John with two mugs of tea and his rumpled clothes. John with his bewildered guilty expression. John, who had so clearly not spent the night in his own bed, because he would never have come downstairs in his clothes from the day before, and his posture was not that of a man who'd passed an ill-advised night kipping on the sofa. John who had stared at him with confusion and concern, who had not asked _How was your trip_ but instead had asked _How are you feeling?_

Impossible.

Clearly not.

Improbable, perhaps. But—

He thought of his bedroom, tried to remember. Had his bedding smelled of John? He had passed more than one sleepless night overwhelmed by inconvenient and unwanted surges of affection, of distraction, of pure dizzying _want._ He'd opened his eyes certain he was drowning in it, choking on it, the scent of John's shampoo drifting under the bathroom door, too much and not enough. And that day it had been particularly severe, hadn't it? That confused, angry want?

Had he ignored the obvious answer? That John's scent had been so close because John had, in fact, spent the night in his room? That John had awakened guilty and alone, had then been further distressed by Sherlock's arrival? 

Might John have been confused by Sherlock's appearance because he had not, exactly, been alone at all? 

If he _had_ somehow been there that night. If he had—could he duplicate the experience? Could he do it again? 

If he could—

He could wipe out Moriarty, before Moriarty even made himself known. He could stop it, all of it, before it went too far, before he had to leave. Before it all went wrong. Before he ruined everything, before that wonderful fond light went out of John's eyes for good. 

And Mary— 

A phone call would do it. A tip-off to Mycroft about the unassuming betrayer in his circle, a helpful hint about the true fate of the A.G.R.A. team. Rosamund Mary, in the process of becoming Mary Morstan, could be located and acquired and brought into protective custody. Her surviving associates could be extracted, offered the same protection. There would be no one hunting her, no reason for her to—

No reason for her to build a new life for herself, to encounter John, to marry him. No reason for John to ever leave Baker Street and the life he and Sherlock shared together. 

The thought made something burn in his gut and he shook his head, banished it. 

He shouldn't want that. He wanted it. 

( _Not doing this right now,_ John had said, surprisingly gentle, as he'd pulled back, his hand still cupping Sherlock's cheek.) 

It had felt so _real._

What a wasted opportunity. To allow himself to be led like a stumbling fool, ushered to bed, soothed to sleep. He should have been collecting data, he should have been putting that time to use, he should have been _fixing things._

Instead he'd soaked up John's warmth, had stolen a taste of John's lips, had fallen asleep breathing John's scent.

Horrifyingly sentimental. Utterly useless. 

He ran an index finger along his lips, tried to recall the sensation. His skin prickled. His eyes began to sting and he shut them, breathed in through his nose. 

If he'd known—if he'd _known,_ if he'd been even halfway aware of what an opportunity he'd been presented—

The doorbell rang. 

He breathed out, a frustrated huff. Opened his eyes. 

There was a smell in the air: takeaway. Chinese. A few hours cold, now. Empty cartons strewn about on the floor. 

He listened. Wiggins, rustling in the kitchen. The clink of glassware. 

The bell rang again. 

The room was dark. It was late. Rain beat against the window, a steady downpour. 

He stood up, looked outside. Could see nothing through the beaded moisture on the fogged glass. 

He retreated into his bedroom, stripped out of his pyjamas, put on trousers and a shirt. Slipped back into his dressing gown. 

The bell rang again. Persistent. No one had answered the door. Mrs Hudson had clearly decided to punish him for something. 

He went down the stairs, made sure to stamp with a bit of extra vigour. Opened the door, scowled at the bedraggled, rain-damp woman who'd interrupted his thoughts. 

"Mr Holmes," she said, her face pale and wan, eyes owlish behind thick-frame glasses. "Please. I need your help." 

She huddled on the step, fidgeted with the sleeves of her dress. Peered up at his face and waited for him to speak.

His mind felt as fragile and tenuous as candy floss, his thoughts dissolving even as he chased them. _John,_ he thought. There was something important. Something he needed to remember. Something he needed to do. 

He sniffed hard, pulled air into his lungs and clapped his hands together as he regarded her. She did not have an umbrella, nor a coat. She flinched a bit, a small gesture, subtle. 

"Red is _not_ your colour," he said, stepping aside to let her in. She clasped a walking stick in one trembling hand, and it clicked against the lino, reminding him so strongly of John for a moment that he doubled over, his vision swimming, his gut churning. 

And then he didn't have much time to think about Belarus, or the wall, or why any of it had ever held any importance at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stop by and say hi on [Tumblr.](http://www.discordantwords.tumblr.com)


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